Playboy Prince

Ew.

"—but I've known a lot of women who get the same urge."

Where the fuck is Liam? He's supposed to hold up his end of the bargain. Not leave me trapped in conversations with horny douchebags.

Ah. There he is.

The Playboy Prince himself.

Liam steps out of the hallway, frustrated look on his face. Then he shakes his head and it's gone. Replaced by his usual carefree smile.

I've worked with the CFO for long enough to know he does, in fact, get frustrated. But the glimpses of sincerity are rare. Usually, he's all troublemaker all the time.

Everyone at work calls him Playboy Prince because he inherited his fortune and he mows through pretty, young women like it's going out of style.

He's got money, connections, movie star good looks.

Of course, he acts like a spoiled prince.

He scans the room. Finds me.

I mouth help.

He nods and makes a drink motion.

I hold up my empty glass.

He nods got it and heads to the bar.

Suit Guy follows my gaze. "Your fiancé?"

"Uh-huh." I suck on another ice cube. Try to absorb as much gin as possible. This conversation needs to go faster.

"How is it you know Lee?" he asks.

"Work." It's true, even if it's not accurate. I know Liam through work—he's my boss, lucky me. And I know the bride and groom through Liam. Close enough.

"Weddings always make me emotional."

Here it goes.

"What about you? I think about what is and what could be. And how I want to find love one day."

"I'm happy."

"Do you have a date?"

"We're going to elope."

"You know, most people think Las Vegas is the wedding capital of the US, but it's actually Maui."

"Fascinating." A beach in Maui. Warm water. Soft sun. A handsome man in a Speedo. What a happy place.

Only the handsome man in my traitorous brain is Liam.

All tall and broad and tan and hard—

Fuck.

"Hey, baby." Finally, Liam arrives. "I have this." He looks to Suit Guy. "Do me a favor. Take that for her." He motions to my empty drink.

Like so many people before him, Suit Guy falls under Liam's spell immediately. "Sure."

I push my drink into his hands. Take my replacement from Liam.

He slides his arm around my waist. Pulls my body into his. "Thanks for keeping my fiancée company. I'm Liam Pierce." He holds up his cup in lieu of shaking.

"The Liam Pierce?" the guy asks.

"The one and only."

"It's an honor." His eyes go to Liam's bright green drink. "Is that—"

"An appletini, yeah." Liam takes a long sip. Lets out a soft sigh. "My favorite."

It is his favorite. He orders so-called girly drinks to fuck with people.

It works too. Messes with the equilibrium somehow. And it's obscene how well it attracts women.

But then Liam doesn't really need a colorful drink to attract women. He's gorgeous. Equal parts Prince Charming and Olympic swimmer.

Blue eyes, sandy hair, winning smile.

Broad shoulders, built arms, lean torso.

And those thighs—

That ass—

Not that I stare. I just notice how well his suit hugs his butt. It's impossible to not notice.

And when he changes into running gear on his way out of the office.

Or at the pool party last summer, in a royal blue Speedo, smiling as women stared at his crotch.

Not that I contemplated how well he filled out his swimsuit.

What does that matter?

I mean, even if I did care about dick size—and I would never suggest such a thing in front of Liam—the Speedo tells little.

He might be all show and no grow.

Even if the show is quite—

Uh—

I swallow a sip. It's strong. The perfect mix of tart citrus and herbaceous gin.

"Good?" Liam's eyes flit to my lips.

"Huh?"

"Your drink? Is it to your liking, baby?"

"Absolutely… sweetheart." I work with what I have. "In fact, I was just telling…" The guy has a name, but I can't remember it at the moment—"my new friend about how we're going to elope."

"In Maui, I hope," the guy says.

"If you promise to wear your black bikini." He slips into his role effortlessly. "It was great meeting you, but we need to talk."

"About the wedding," I add.

The guy nods of course. The second Liam turns, he motions call me.

Yuck.

Liam presses his palm into my lower back.

"Where are we—"

"Somewhere quiet."

There's nowhere quiet. We're at a party. A rich people soiree, sure. It's soft orchestra and trays of hors d’oeuvres, not loud pop and potato chips, but the idea is the same.

There are a lot of people in a small space and they're all laughing, talking, flirting.

Liam leads me into the hallway—we're in the living room of a massive Upper West Side apartment—then up the stairs, down another hallway, into an empty bedroom.

He presses the door closed.

"What do you think is happening here?" I swallow another sip and set my drink on the oak dresser.

This room is huge. By New York City standards, it's obscene. The size of my entire apartment with a big bed, a wall full of framed photos, an oak desk, an old-school book shelf.